


Breach of Custom

by Aliana



Series: Do No Harm [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gondor, Minas Tirith, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:57:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliana/pseuds/Aliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A certain Guardsman's son prepares for his duties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breach of Custom

"Lords of the Citadel," my uncle sometimes says as he stares down at us. "True masters of the upper circles."

"They ought not run so fast," I once heard one of the esquires mutter, stepping back as he stood outside a doorway. "Like a pack of wild dogs, those lads are."

"Let them run," Captain Relion laughed in reply. "'Tis they who must know every street in every circle, inside and out." Captain Relion is the Guardsman in charge of all the message-lads, and a good fellow to have about, I should think, for he himself was a messenger a great many years ago.

Before the evacuations had begun, and then, later, as they were finishing, he set races for us: "To keep you sharp," he says. "Now, go!" And we charged through the streets; one day it might be a contest to see who could go the fastest from the wards to the citadel courtyard, and the next day the route might span from the lords' offices to the Fifth Circle armory. At times the competition grew so fierce that we would end up on the ground at our destination, laughing and panting and taking tired half-hearted swipes at one another. For pure speed, Romnir is probably the best, but I am really quite good at the stairs, taking them two or three at a time.

"You'll be veterans," laughs my father, patting me on the back, when I tell him of our exploits.

"They'll be terrors, plain and simple," my uncle says, grinning. "Lords of the Citadel."

We all know well enough to slow down, however, whenever we come inside the Houses.

"Always walk calmly when you pass within the gates," the Warden told us. "Moving too quickly might create panic." And so we school ourselves to walk, no matter how dire the message might be. 

"He just likes his rules," Romnir complains. "Probably wouldn't feel right if he didn't give everyone at least one or two, you know." I do not say anything because I am once more out of breath from trying to keep up with him.

This time my message is bound for the dispensary, which is fortunately just far away enough from the main gates for me to catch my breath by the time I arrive.

"Good morrow, Master Bergil," says the young lady herbalist, getting up and dropping a curtsey.

"Good morrow to you, Mistress Elloth," I say, and I bow to her, for it has become our custom always to be very formal with one another, and speak very solemnly as grown gentlemen and ladies must. "A message for the dispensary."

"My thanks, Master Bergil," she says, taking the scroll from me. She breaks the seal, unrolls it in her hands and looks it over, while I stand by the door and wait quietly until I have been dismissed or am given further instructions, as I have been taught. Then she nods and folds the parchment and places it in the pocket of her apron, saying, "A moment, please."

I expect her to give me a return message, but instead she only reaches into her pocket and draws out something small and white. "I found this in the herb gardens yesterday," she says. "Valar know what it was doing so far inland." In her open palm is a shell, delicate and pointed, spiraled in upon itself like a tower staircase.

"That's nice," I say. She puts it into my hand.

"It's yours," she says.

"Oh." The seashell is thin and light in my fingers. "No, you should keep it, should you not?" I hold it back towards her. Clearly she does not know the rules of treasure-hunting, or else she has forgotten. "I mean, if you were the one who found it…"

"No, no," she says, moving her hand as if she were brushing away a speck of dust from the shelves of seeds and flasks. "Ioreth says 'tis good luck to give away such a finding, for the giver and the receiver both. Not that I am superstitious, of course," she quickly adds. "Besides, I am sure you will put it to better use than I could."

"Oh. Well—thank you."

"You are quite welcome, Master Bergil. Good morrow." And she curtseys once more, with just a hint of a smile (this last being a breach of custom).

*

"Mayhap she fancies you," Romnir says when I tell him the story.

"Valar," I say, wrinkling my nose. "I should hope not!"

We slip into a narrow little courtyard with one cracked bench. Romnir counts in one, two, three stones from the bench's back right leg, and pulls out the loose stone. On his hands and knees (he will have to brush off the dust from his black uniform trousers to look presentable for the Captain, I think) he gropes in the hollow space in the wall, and pulls out the box.

"Well, if it is good luck, this'll be the safest place for it," he says, brushing off the wooden lid. He opens the box, and I run my finger over the shell one more before setting it inside, beside the other things we've put there over the past year: a jet-black stone, a speckled bird's egg, a white chess pawn that Romnir once found below a gutter after a rain-storm.

"The best hiding place in the City," I say as we slide the stone back into place. If you don't look too closely (as most people don't), it would look just like any other stone in a perfectly solid wall.

"Back to work," says Romnir, and I nod. For we are the Lords of the Citadel, and terrors as well, and there will always be more races to run and messages to give, especially if all we hear is true. He takes off into the streets with nary a word of warning, for that is what he loves to do. But this time I am smiling and shouting as I follow, dashing down the steps that turn like the sides of the seashell. For now, I just might have the good luck I need to beat him.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal, Summer 2005, for EdorasLass's request of a Siege of Gondor story without any angst: yikes!


End file.
